by Mariah Stone
Would she experience that firsthand? And why the hell had Sìneag sent her here to end up with this psycho?
De Bourgh picked at the chicken bone and smacked his lips. Fat dropped down his palm. The scent of food in the room made sickness rise in Amber’s stomach even though she was ravenous.
“I’d invite you to dine with me”—de Bourgh gestured at a chair by his side and an empty plate and cup in front of it—“but it might be wise for you to stay away from food and drink. It all depends on what you decide.”
Amber swallowed a painful knot. Fear coiled in the pit of her stomach, but she raised her chin. “What I decide about what?”
“You can tell me everything I want to know about the Bruce and his army while enjoying a meal and an excellent wine. Or I can use some of these”—he motioned around the room—“to get the words out of you.”
Blood drained from Amber’s face. She needed to get out of here. “I don’t know anything.”
De Bourgh studied her with his sharp, penetrating eyes for a moment, then he gave a nod and picked up another chicken leg. “I suppose you’ve made your choice then.”
She could fight her way out. Owen was right, none of them knew kung fu or anything similar. If de Bourgh or the other guy approached her, her body would know what to do. There was no way she’d let them lay a finger on her.
De Bourgh waved with his hand, and the thin man’s face turned even more sad. The outside corners of his eyebrows sagged, and the ends above his nose met like the sides of a sharp roof.
He walked to Amber, and she bent her knees, assuming a fighting position. The executioner, which was the name she’d given him in her head, stretched his hand out to take her by the shoulder. She grabbed his wrist, moved behind him, and pulled his arm against her body while twisting it. The man grunted, and she dropped to her knees and used her entire body to push him down with her. He panted but remained silenced.
Amber looked at de Bourgh. He studied her with a surprised and amused expression, still chewing.
“Let me go, or I break his arm,” she said.
“What a clever trick,” de Bourgh said. “Well done.”
Why wasn’t he more concerned? Something sharp pressed against Amber’s stomach, and her skin chilled.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that, milady,” the executioner grunted. “You need to let me go, or I will be forced to spill your entrails on the floor.”
Despite the pain, despite the impossible position, the man had managed to use his free hand to get his knife out. His long arms were probably what allowed him to reach her stomach. Amber had trained extensively but had only used kung fu once or twice to defend herself. This man was something else. Did the executioner not feel pain? Was he not afraid of it like a normal human being?
The sharp edge of his knife dug deeper into her skin.
“Let him go, Mistress Cambel.” De Bourgh tossed the chicken bone on the plate and wiped his hands. “He will kill you without hesitation. His arm is more precious to me than your life.”
Amber grunted and let the executioner’s arm go. He stood up slowly, watching her with pity in his eyes. She stood up as well, furious with him and with herself for not having another plan.
De Bourgh walked around the table to stand next to her. He was a short man, shorter than Amber, and next to the executioner, he looked like a ball next to a golf club.
“Where did you learn that?” de Bourgh asked.
“None of your business.”
“Hmm.” He slowly looked her over. “And where do your peculiar clothes come from? You’re dressed like a man in those breeches, but they’re almost like stockings. And this garment…” He reached out and took the collar of her leather jacket between his thumb and index finger. Amber stepped back. “Leather. Hmm. Never seen such rich finishing.”
He met her eyes. “You look very outlandish to me, mistress.”
“Exactly. I’m not from here. I don’t know anything about the Bruce. You’re wasting your time with me.”
“Not from here. I dare say. Your dark skin. Your clothes. Your strange speech. Where are you from, then?”
“Far away. You have no idea how far.”
“Elusive, again, are we? Let’s see if Jerold Baker here can persuade you to open up.”
The executioner grabbed Amber by the elbow, his long knife pointed right at her kidney. Amber muttered an oath, her legs as weak as cooked noodles. Should she lie? Tell him something about the Bruce, some sort of nonsense just to make him stop?
“I hope you realize that your elusiveness plays against you,” de Bourgh said. “I don’t trust you at all, I know you’re hiding something. Something big, something that might be of interest to me. Something that I will find out eventually.”
The executioner took her to the giant pole standing in the middle of the room. He placed Amber’s hand in a crude iron handcuff attached to the pole, and her insides trembled.
Screw this.
She jerked her wrist away before he could close the iron on her and punched him in the nose. Bone cracked, and blood spilled out of his nostrils. He groaned but still managed to bring the knife to her neck with one hand and grabbed her wrist in a viselike grip.
“My profession had hardened me to pain,” he said calmly. “Your fighting is futile. You will not win.”
He was an agent of death, pale and sad and calm.
“Oh, I don’t believe you,” she spat. “Everyone is afraid of pain.”
“Especially you,” he said.
He put the knife away, but before Amber could act and free herself, she was handcuffed. Cold iron bit into her skin.
Anger and helplessness burned through her like a high fever. “Let me go.” She tried to yank her hand away, but of course, it was hopeless. Jerold Baker took her other hand in a grip as hard as the iron, and put it in the second handcuff.
She stood now with her back to de Bourgh, helpless and exposed despite being dressed. She could almost feel the sharp tools of torture digging into her skin, wrenching her bones.
Would she survive this? Or would she die from wounds or an infection after?
She hadn’t done anything to deserve this. It was completely unfair. And it was all her fault. She never should’ve come with Owen. She should’ve gone back to her time and confronted Jackson, should’ve believed she would find a way to clear her name. At least no one in the twenty-first century would try to torture her.
Tears burned her eyes and blurred her vision, but she forbade herself to cry. She wouldn’t give these two men the satisfaction.
De Bourgh walked to her and stood so that he faced her. “My King, Edward II, has entrusted me to restore England’s position in Scotland. To weaken the Bruce. And I think you and your husband are the key.”
He walked towards the wall and picked up an instrument. It looked like giant tongs with bent edges. On each side of the tongs were two sharp, long claws like on a hay fork.
“This is called a breast ripper,” de Bourgh said, and the floor under Amber’s feet shook. “I would hate to mutilate a beautiful woman like yourself.”
“Please…” The word escaped her mouth before she could stop herself.
“Hmm.” De Bourgh chuckled, satisfied.
“Owen would not be happy, not that his happiness is my concern. Maybe we could use this.” He came to stand next to a chair. “This would slowly fry your feet. Jerold Baker knows this one especially well. It’s very effective at getting people to answer questions they previously didn’t want to answer.” He picked up a thick wooden shield and put it between the fireplace and the chair. “Once the skin starts to scald, Jerold Baker puts the shield between the soles and the fire. The promise of sweet relief is usually enough to start anyone talking, even after they’ve assured me they don’t know anything. Just like you.”
Amber closed her eyes. Sweat broke out on her skin, drenching her. She could almost smell the burned flesh. Burns like that would eat through her flesh to the bone. She might ne
ver be able to walk again.
“Please,” Amber said. “You’re wasting your time with me. I don’t know anything about the Bruce.”
She didn’t notice a tear until it ran over her lip and into her mouth, salty on her tongue.
“I would gladly release you, Mistress Cambel. I’d hate to punish a woman as beautiful as you. You’re a mystery, unlike anyone I’ve ever seen before. But I cannot afford to fail. The king will restore my lands in the south and my title if I succeed. If I don’t, my daughters won’t have dowries, and my son won’t have an inheritance.”
He put the board back and came closer to her, an expression of sympathy on his face.
“For the last time, will you talk? Will you answer my questions?”
Amber exhaled. If her life was over, she might as well meet the end with her head high. She’d had a good life. She lived it honestly and always tried to do what was right. She’d known love and had met a handsome warrior who’d made her begin to feel things she hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe ever. She’d traveled back in time, for God’s sake. How many people could brag about that?
“Go to hell,” she whispered.
De Bourgh gave a slow nod and sighed. “You leave me no choice. James, take off her short coat and her tunic.”
Amber closed her eyes. Her cheeks flushed and burned as James Baker cut her leather jacket and her shirt and ripped both off her. Her naked skin prickled sharply as air touched it. From the top, she was now only in her bra.
Silence hung in the room. She opened her eyes and found both men staring at her bra with puzzled expressions.
“That as well, my lord?” James Baker said.
“What is that?” de Bourgh said.
“Does it matter?” Amber said.
“No,” de Bourgh replied. “Remove that, too.”
With some sort of giant scissors, James Baker cut her bra, and it fell on the floor.
A shiver ran through Amber. Would she lose her breasts now?
“Flog her,” de Bourgh said.
Flogging…
Fuck.
If she didn’t bleed to death from that, an infection would kill her. She wished she knew something about the Bruce to trade for her life.
With a sinking stomach, Amber watched James Baker go to the wall of torture tools and take a whip off it. It was like a snake attached to a big stick. Amber’s whole body shook, her breath coming in and out in shudders. She locked her eyes with James Baker as he walked to stand behind her wearing that same sad expression.
“You will pay for this,” she said. “I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But you will.”
Somehow, she knew that if she survived this, Owen wouldn’t let this go. He was no one to her, and she was no one to him, but something told her he wouldn’t take this lightly.
“We’ll see. Begin,” de Bourgh said.
A crack echoed in the air behind her, and red-hot pain scorched her bare back. She grunted and sank from the impact. But before she could recover and take a breath, another lash tore her apart. This time, she couldn’t stop a scream.
Blows rained down on her, one after another, and soon, the only thing that existed was world-shattering pain.
Chapter 8
The door to the dungeon screeched and clunked somewhere in the darkness. Owen jumped to his feet and leaned on the iron bars. A torch lit the hall, then another. Heavy feet pounded against the stone floor as the two lights approached. The dungeon’s other inhabitant fussed in his cell by the exit.
“Food. Water, please,” he begged.
Owen’s stomach rumbled, too. His lips were parched, and his head ached. He hadn’t had a drop to drink in he didn’t know how long. He didn’t know what time of day it was now. Mayhap it was tomorrow? Mayhap they were still in the same endless day.
His main concern was Amber. His stomach had dropped and the calm and peaceful demeanor had disappeared when they’d taken her, and every moment she was away was agony.
What was de Bourgh doing to her? If he touched one hair on her head, Owen would make him wish he were never born.
He peered into the darkness until his eyes hurt, but he couldn’t make anything out beyond the light of the two torches against the blackness.
“Amber?” he said. “Is that ye?”
“Shut up,” came a male response.
Owen gripped the iron bars until his fingertips were numb. Finally, they were close enough that he could see a man marching with two torches and behind him—
Icy fingers gripped Owen’s core.
Two men carried Amber’s limp body.
“Amber!” Owen called.
She didn’t move. Some sort of a cloak covered her shoulders.
“She can’t hear you.” The man with the torches opened the door to the cell.
They carried her inside, her feet dragging over the ground. They placed her on her belly on the bench attached to the wall in the darkest corner of the cell.
“Don’t turn her on her back.” The guard gave one torch to Owen.
With that, the three of them left. Owen’s wide eyes remained fixed on Amber’s immobile body.
Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, please, let her be alive.
He wouldn’t forgive himself if she died. Wherever he went, trouble and tragedy followed. The feud with the MacDougalls, the deaths of his grandfather and Lachlan, Marjorie’s misfortunes, Ian’s…
Even when he was a wee lad, he’d always managed to make a mess of things. Like when the MacKinnons had come to visit Glenkeld. Owen had begged his da to let him go out on the hunt with the men. He was a good shot for a ten-year-old. But his father had barely acknowledged Owen’s request. He’d been too busy talking to his guests.
A disgruntled young Owen had fed the hounds so well that morning, they’d been tired and not interested in the hunt. Consequently, an angry boar had almost attacked the MacKinnon chief. It was only Owen’s father’s excellent aim that had saved the man’s life.
Later, when his father realized who was responsible for the mischief, he’d given Owen a hiding with a soft whip that hadn’t broken his skin but had stung nonetheless. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taught Owen to behave. It had taught him a way to get his father’s attention.
But Owen couldn’t mess this up. Not when the life of an innocent woman was at stake. Especially since the woman was Amber. He put the torch into a sconce on the wall above the bench and sank to his knees by Amber's side. In the light of the fire, he could see her back rising and falling in small, shallow motions. She was pale, but she looked serene. They hadn’t hit her face.
Carefully, he lifted the cloak a little from her shoulder. Bare skin. De Bourgh had undressed her. What else had he done to her? A painful chill went through him, followed by a hot rush of anger.
That bastart… Oh, he will pay. If there’s a single bruise on her…
He lifted the cloak higher, until he saw the first cut. It was a lash, red and broad. The skin in the middle of it was broken, and the cut bled.
“Oh, lass,” Owen whispered. His fists clenched, fingernails biting into his palm.
He uncovered her back completely and saw a dozen or so long, bleeding cuts.
“Holy Mother of Jesu,” he muttered in horror.
He needed to treat her. Wounds like this could be deadly. She could get a fever, especially here in this dirty, moldy underground. But he had nothing, not even clean cloth to cover the cuts. And where were her clothes? She needed to stay warm to stay alive.
Owen covered her again and stood. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked around, hoping to find something that would help him. Any warrior knew the basics of how to treat cuts and wounds, so he was ready to help her. But all he had around him was dirt, dust, and rocks.
He sank to his knees again and felt Amber’s pulse on her neck. It was weak, but it was there. Had she passed out from pain? A dozen lashes would be tough for a healthy man, and as strong as Amber seemed, she was a woman. And the days on the road weakened her.
He needed to speak to the guard. Plead with de Bourgh to take her to a healer. He could make a deal, trade some insignificant or even false information for Amber’s recovery. It had been a brilliant move on de Bourgh’s behalf to start the torture with Amber and not Owen. He couldn’t stand to see her suffer so.
The door to the dungeon screeched and gnashed again, and he rushed to the bars.
“Please, help,” he called to whoever carried a torch towards him. “She needs a healer.”
The person first stopped by the other prisoner. Owen heard a metallic clang and some liquid being poured, then came the noise of a hungry man gulping food down. Then the light came towards Owen.
Soon, he could distinguish the features of a guard. He was short and hunched over with a crooked back. He looked about fifty years old and wore a simple cap on his bald head. He had a large nose, a protruding lower jaw, and small, deeply set eyes that made him resemble a hound.
No, this man wasn’t a guard. As far as Owen could see, he was unarmed. He must be a warden.
The man put the torch into a sconce by the grating and then removed a large purse from behind his back. He fished out a waterskin and he tossed it into the cell through a gap in the bars. Then he took out a loaf of bread and did the same. It landed right on the floor, in the dirt, but Owen’s mouth watered at the sight of it.
Nae, he had more important things to think about.
“Please help,” he said. “My wife is badly injured. She’ll die if she isna treated. Can ye take me to de Bourgh? Or bring a healer here?”
The man looked sharply at him, his furry brows knotting together.
“Where’re ye from, lad?” he said, his Highland accent even thicker than Owen’s.
“Argyll. Loch Awe.”
“A Cambel?”
“Aye. Owen Cambel.”
The man grunted. He looked back in the darkness he had come from.
“My name is Muireach,” he said. “I’m from Kintail myself.”